They Saved Me
by xprimrose
Summary: Elliot is on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge, ready to jump when a girl(reader) comes by asking if he's there to see the sun rise. He immediately runs off before she can say anything more, and out of regret he spends the rest of his days searching for the girl who saved his life. Told in the perspective of Elliot (Elliot x Reader)


I'm ready to jump.

I know, I know. I keep saying I can get by on morphine and sporadic crying episodes, but at this point it might be too late for me. Why am I still talking to you, even after all this? I don't know. I guess it's just nice to have someone who can hear your last few raw thoughts before you die. Don't think too much of it. You're only in my head anyway.

I'm sitting on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge. These bars are made to keep people safe, but it makes the perfect spot to sit and ready yourself for an inevitable end. Once you get yourself up here it's almost a little too late to turn back, even if you want to. But I want to do this. No, I don't.

Fuck, shut up. Shut up shut up.

It's too late for me. I never had a chance. In this world of kill or be killed, I'd rather do neither and escape while I can. I'm sorry, friend, this is going to be our last talk. It was… easier with you. But you're just in my head, like everything else. Having you around only fueled the crazy. It's best this way.

My feet look miniscule; insignificant compared to the bellowing black waves below me. I'm not scared. I should be, but I'm not. I think I'm ready for this. I haven't got anything to be hesitant about. This loneliness, this—emptiness; it won't stop. I can't save the world. How could I when I can barely hold onto my own?

This is it. This is it. I'll never have to deal with any of those things again if I do this. Is that what I want? Someone else can maybe save the world, but it won't be me. I'll be gone from it. Maybe Darlene will do it. She's smart, and a little less damaged than I am. Maybe I'll miss her. Do people still miss things when they're dead?

Fuck, just do it. Do it. Do it do it do it. I'm swinging my legs now. I slip for a second and my heart skips a beat. One, two, three—

"That's a nice spot to watch the sunrise from." a voice stops me in the midst of my momentum. I freeze. Do I turn around? What the fuck is a jumper supposed to do in a situation like this? Fuck fuck fuck what do I say what do I say? "How the hell did you get up there?" she asks. It's a she. I turn around slowly. "Can you talk?" she laughs. Her voice sounds wrong in the severity of the situation. But of course, she doesn't know. I clear my throat uncomfortably. My nerves come back to me like a whipping wind. This feels like a mistake. She stopped me. Am I mad?

Technically I can still jump. It would be impossible for her to do anything once I'm off the ledge. She'd just have to watch me in wonder or despair as I plummet towards my suicide; and she wouldn't be able to do a god damn thing to help me. You know I'm right.

I assess the situation—my thoughts are a jumble of tangled knots. I don't know this woman. But the last thing I want to do is affect anyone when I do this. She doesn't deserve it. She shouldn't have to see someone die.

I jump down from the railing, and I'm shaking a little bit. The Brooklyn Bridge is pretty high up. Approximately 276.5 feet above the mean water level; enough to kill anyone who has the means to jump in. If not by the height then the ferociously icy water will finish you off. Surely.

I pull up my hood and tilt my head down slightly to the side. It's not light out enough for me to make out any features on her face. I hope she can't see mine. The wind is making her hair go ballistic and strands of it snake around her face as she stands there in silence; dumbfounded by my lack of speech. I start walking off in the other direction with my hands shoved in my worn pockets. I don't hear her behind me. I need morphine again.

* * *

It's been a while. Two months, to be exact, since I last spoke to you. Sorry. I try to keep myself busy these days.

I've been finding myself thinking about that girl a lot. About who she was and why she was there at the exact ungodly hour I happened to be there. It could be my paranoia settling in but I get the sense she was _supposed_ to find me.

Fate isn't real, I know that, and surely you do too. I wonder if she knew what was going on. It would be pretty naïve of me, to think she didn't know why I was up there. She knew. She saved my life. I think I should be thankful, but I'm not sure how to feel about it. I wanted to die. I was ready to die at that exact moment. But, things are calmer now. Angela and I have been talking again, Darlene too. I have my addiction—my _habit_ under control. If she hadn't shown up I might be just another obituary in the newspaper, crumpled up and rolling through the streets in a week.

I need to find her, but I'm going on nothing. I don't know her name or if she's even from New York. She could've been on vacation for all I know, and already halfway across the world. Her face is a blur to me; like the people you see in your dreams that you can't put a name to. I read somewhere in some stupid psychology article that every face you encounter in your dreams belongs to a person you've met in real life, because the brain just isn't smart enough to manually conjure up human faces. Maybe I've seen her in my dreams.

Flipper is whining for a walk so I grab her leash. It's been getting too stuffy in the apartment anyway, despite the lack of substance to it, besides my bed and the few pieces of furniture that the previous tenant left behind. I pull up my hood as we walk down the steps of my complex. We don't have a planned route—we just walk. It's nice to have company from someone that doesn't make me talk.

We hit the end of my street and take a left for two blocks, then a right. We end up outside a bakery and Flipper whines at the pastries in the window display. "Down, girl." I coo to her. I bend over to scruff her on the head. She rolls onto her back; belly exposed, and it pulls a grin from the corner of my mouth.

Suddenly the jingle of a shop door opening catches both of our attentions. A girl dressed in a tan gingham uniform and a brown apron comes out with a broom in her hand. "Oh—how are you two doing tonight?" she smiles. "Taking your puppy for a walk?"

My mouth goes dry as soon as she speaks to us. Her voice. It's her voice. I know it is. That's the only thing I can remember about her. Maybe I'm letting my hopes get the best of me. How do I know?

"Uh…" Is all I can muster. I can feel my palms getting sweaty; adrenaline rushes through my chest. Am I imagining this? I'm crazy, I must be crazy. I'm crazy I'm crazy.

"Do you want to come in?" She asks, still holding the door open. "We're closing soon so most of the stuff is getting tossed out. I can sneak you guys a pastry or two if you want." I like that she refers to me and Flipper as "you guys". She's got flour all over the front of her apron in roughly the shape of a pear. Brown really isn't a good color to wear if you're going to be working in the back of a bakery. But it suits her. I study her keenly to see if I can rack the part of my brain that creates dreams to see if she's a match.

Her hair is (y/h/c) and tied up into a disheveled bun on the top of her head. Looks like she's had a long work day. Her face is distinctive; her chin is sharp but her cheeks are round and plump. Her eyes are (y/e/c) and they sparkle even in the dim lighting fading from the shop.

"Um, are you alright?" she laughs. It's her laugh. Holy shit if this is really her—"Are you gonna say anything?" Her laugh sounds like honey. "Man, you remind me of…" She chuckles the idea away for a moment, and gets to sweeping. "Anyway, come in if you like, I don't wanna keep you any longer if you're in a hurry to get home—"

"—remind you of what?" I ask, spitting out my words like a madman. She looks shocked to hear me speak. She didn't get a chance to hear my voice that night so there's no way she can recognize me. I regret not saying anything to her.

"Uh, just…" She scratches her head on the top of the broom and shakes her head as if ridding of the idea. "No really, it's nothing. I've had a long day I don't know what I'm saying." Her fingers trace the ridges of the broom. She looks like she wants to tell me.

"Tell me." I clear my throat. Her eyes flicker up at me once more and I tighten my grip on Flipper's leash.

"Well, I was on the Brooklyn Bridge a few weeks ago, maybe a couple months, I don't remember. I'd had a really rough night with—" She shifts her weight onto the broom "—Anyway I ran into this guy who was sitting on the top of the rails—god knows how he climbed up there—but I hadn't seen him until I got really close, so it scared me a little. I mean, of all places on that bridge I was expecting to be alone, but there he was. So I figure he heard me coming, but when I ask him if he's there to see the sunrise he turns around as if I'd just summoned the aid of Satan."

I chew on my lower lip as she tells me the story. This is her, this is definitely her. There's no other way that this could be a coincidence. I want to ask her why she had a rough night but I can't bring myself to interrupt. I need to be sure.

"So after a little while he jumps down and I realize he's wearing a black hoodie—kind of—kind of like the one you're wearing—and he blended right in with the sky; That's why I didn't see him."

Invisible. That's what I was. Even then, she saw me. Somehow.

"We're standing there on the bridge; my hair whipping me in the face and honestly I'm a little freaked out that he hasn't said anything, so I ask him if he can talk. The guy just stares at me and then walks off. And… that's it. Not that wild of a story, right?" She scoffs. She looks at me and cocks her head for a second. I swallow hard and drop my eyes to the sidewalk. I can't look at her. I don't know why. I want to but I can't. Flipper whines at me again. "…I guess guys who don't like to talk wear a black hoodie for a reason." She chuckles, as she begins to sweep the leaves away from the shop entrance.

It's her. I can't believe it's her. Somehow I've found her. I said I don't believe in fate, and I still don't, but what do I call this? I struggle to say something back to her; the words get stuck in my throat. I want her to know that the man she met was me, but I don't want to scare her off. I'm better now, I want to say. But I can't just tell her that. But if I don't I'll lose her again, to the restless city of New York. I still don't even know her name. What if she quits this place? Fate doesn't help you again when you fuck up twice.

"…That was me." The words fall chaotically out of my mouth in a low mumble. There, I said it. She looks up from her sweeping with her plump lips slightly parted and her eyes widened with wonder. She doesn't look terrified. That's good. I guess.

"M-my name's—Elliot." I can't read her expression. I'm getting scared.

"Elliot." The name sounds so delicate resonating from her lips. She looks at me for a little while longer and I want to run. Run away Elliot, this is bad. She thinks you're bad. You need to go. She takes a step closer to me and I dart my eyes around nervously. "Elliot, you weren't there to see the sunrise, were you?" My heart's beating too hard. Why did I put myself into this situation, why couldn't I have just left her alone? She doesn't need this from me.

"No." I say. She nods and puts a gentle hand on my chest.

"Me neither." My eyebrows furrow. What did she just say? No, what did she mean? Her hand drops from my chest but she continues to stare up at me.

"What's…your name?" I ask her, neither of us breaking eye contact.

"(Y/N)." She says. (Y/N). It's gentle. It suits her.

"(Y/N)," I start shakily, "thank you". She grips the broom tightly with both of her hands and gives me a sad smile.

"Thank you, Elliot."


End file.
